


This is my Kingdom come

by mornmeril



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fic Exchange, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Past Child Abuse, M/M, enjoltaire gift exchange tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His eyes were fixed on the table, carefully avoiding Enjolras’ gaze.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“I need a favour,” Grantaire said to his hands, voice low and slightly strained. “I need to go to this thing. But I don’t want to do it on my own.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras accompanies Grantaire to his 'thing' and gets the chance to right some wrongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is my Kingdom come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IHaveNeverBeenWise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/gifts).



> This is part of the [Enjoltaire Gift Exchange](http://enjoltairechallenges.tumblr.com) over at Tumblr and is a gift for [i-have-never-been-wise](http://i-have-never-been-wise.tumblr.com) \- I really hope you'll like it, my dear!
> 
> My prompt was **Enjolras comforts guilty/angsting Grantaire**. There is hurt/comfort and there is definitely angsting Grantaire, but Enjolras kinda turned out to be the guilty one - or at least somewhat guiltier than Grantaire - so, sorry about that! I hope it's still somewhat what you wanted!
> 
> All mistakes are my own, feel free to point out any I've missed :).
> 
> Also, the title is shamelessly stolen from the song [Demons by Imagine Dragons](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LqI78S14Wgg).

* * *

“Enjolras.”

Despite the soft volume, the word cut through the otherwise deathly quiet of the library, making Enjolras start in his seat. He yanked his hands away from his face, where his fingers had been rubbing at his aching eyes a moment ago, and a sudden, sharp pain shot up his right arm as his elbow collided with the edge of the table he’d been working at.

“Sorry.” Grantaire looked honestly contrite. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Jesus, Grantaire,” Enjolras hissed angrily, harsher than the situation warranted, clutching his elbow and trying to rub the tingling pain away. 

He had hardly slept last night and a migraine had been building behind his eyes since he’d gotten up two hours ago. Enjolras was trying his best to fight it down, but he knew that with the amount of sleep he’d been missing, it was a miracle the migraine had waited this long to appear. He hoped he would hold out for another few hours - or at least until he managed to finish the paper he’d been working on, because he knew that as soon as the migraine hit him properly, he would be incapacitated for at least half a day.

“Sorry,” Grantaire repeated as he folded into the chair next to him, his hands looking as though they wanted to reach for him, before retreating once more and instead landing palms-down on the table.

Enjolras took a deep breath, forcing down his irrational anger and taking his first good look at the other man.

Grantaire looked, for lack of a better word, terrible. His hair was wilder than usual, standing every-which way, his eyes bloodshot and his face sickly pale. His clothes were even more rumpled than usual and his jeans were covered in paint stains. The frayed hem of his hoodie was drawn over his hands, letting only his fingers peek out. They were free of paint despite the state of his jeans, which meant that he’d put them on without looking.

Enjolras frowned. 

“It’s fine,” he said and turned slightly to check the time on his laptop, only to feel his frown deepen. It was far too early for Grantaire to even consider getting up, let alone leave the house. “What are you doing here?”

Grantaire, shoulders slumped and looking more exhausted than Enjolras had ever seen him, scrubbed a hand through his hair. His eyes were fixed on the table, carefully avoiding Enjolras’ gaze.

“I need a favour,” Grantaire said to his hands, voice low and slightly strained. “I need to go to this thing. But I don’t want to do it on my own.”

Definitely concerned now, Enjolras closed the lid of his laptop and turned in his seat to fully face Grantaire, who was still refusing to look at him. Before he could voice his concern, Grantaire was already rushing on, words tumbling from his mouth as though he was afraid that Enjolras would refuse him before even hearing the details.

“It’s just, I would have asked one of the others but they would’ve made a fuss and I really don’t need that right now, so…” Here, Grantaire trailed off, the sudden flood of words ebbing into uncertainty and Enjolras watched his fingers disappear completely under the hem of his sleeves as they curled inwards towards his palms.

A sudden pang tightened Enjolras’ chest and he wondered if he’d been so bad a friend to Grantaire that he only came to Enjolras as a last resort and even then expected to be shot down outright. It was a sobering, if painful realisation and Enjolras swore that he would take greater care to dissuade such thoughts in future.

“When do we leave?”

Grantaire’s head snapped up in surprise and Enjolras bit his tongue, all his anger now directed at himself. It was no news to him that human relations weren’t his strongest suit, but seeing the evidence of how much he’d apparently failed right there in front of him was hard. Enjolras had never been one to stomach failure easily.

“Really?” Grantaire’s bloodshot eyes were wide. “You’ll come?”

“Of course.”

The paper could wait. Everything could wait. Despite what everyone thought of Enjolras, his friends would always come first and, Enjolras realised uncomfortably, Grantaire maybe most of all.

*

The university campus was big and confusing, every path and tree looking exactly the same as the next and most of the signs angled in a completely unhelpful way. It had taken Enjolras almost an entire month to find his way around after he’d first arrived and it was more often than not thanks to Combeferre that he didn’t get lost between the trees. Despite being a very focused person, Enjolras hated wasting any of his concentration on trivial things and was usually too busy composing papers and pamphlets in his head, or mentally crossing and adding things to his to-do lists to pay much attention to where he was going.

When Enjolras had made his way to the library this morning, the campus had been deserted and now, almost three hours later, not much had changed. Not even Combeferre had been amenable to accompany Enjolras to the library at eight in the morning on a Saturday and so Enjolras had gone on his own.

The sky was grey and the chill of the night still lingered, made stinging by the wind. Leaves were rustling above them and Enjolras drew his jacket tighter around himself, his heavy messenger bag bumping against his hip as he shifted the strap from his right shoulder to his left and across his chest. Grantaire was unusually quiet next to him, eyes cast to the ground and hood drawn up against the wind. Enjolras kept stealing glances at him, but every time he thought of speaking the words refused to form properly and he swallowed each poor attempt before it could stumble from his mouth.

Despite Grantaire’s readiness to argue Enjolras’ points during their meetings and his constant - if often cynical - teasing, the handful of times that he had been alone with Enjolras he had always been more reserved than with their friends. In the past, Enjolras had been grateful for it, certain that if they started a conversation it would doubtlessly end in an explosive argument as most of their other interactions. But lately Enjolras had often wished that things were somehow different, that Grantaire wouldn’t look so surprised when Enjolras smiled at him, that he wouldn’t be so careful when Enjolras tried talking to him about something that didn’t involve idealism and protests.

Things weren’t different, though, and so Enjolras could do little except throw concerned looks and letting Grantaire pretend he didn’t notice.

*

Compared to the campus, the metro was buzzing with people even though there weren’t nearly as much as during a rush hour. They managed to squeeze into a pair of empty seats and Enjolras tried not to lean into Grantaire’s warmth, instead fiddling with his phone, their thighs pressed together in the small space. Neither of them moved away.

They got off at Belleville and upon emerging from under ground, Enjolras noticed to his dismay that a slight drizzle had started. Grantaire set out at a brisk walk and, if possible, avoided looking at Enjolras even more than before. The worry knotting Enjolras’ stomach only increased even as he kept pace with Grantaire, his longer legs making it easy to keep up.

At first, Enjolras had thought that maybe this mysterious ‘thing’ had something to do with an art gallery, but now he wasn’t so sure. He knew that Grantaire had grown up in this area of Paris and wondered, for the first time, if maybe they were going to something family related. Grantaire had never, for as long as Enjolras had known him, mentioned any member of his family and was the only one beside himself and Marius that never went home on any of the holidays.

Enjolras was torn from his thoughts when Grantaire suddenly stopped walking, making Enjolras blink and look up for the first time in the past ten minutes or so. The gate of Belleville cemetery loomed over them and the knot in Enjolras’ stomach grew taunt, twisting harshly and making him feel suddenly sick.

“A funeral?” Enjolras demanded. “When you said ‘this thing’ you meant a funeral?”

Grantaire looked pale and drawn, still refusing to meet Enjolras’ eyes and Enjolras felt immediately contrite for sounding so harsh. Taking a deep breath, he did the only thing he could think of and tried to soothe his previous outburst with a gentle touch. He curled his fingers around Grantaire’s arm, giving it a clumsy squeeze but not letting go until Grantaire finally looked up to meet his eyes, only for his gaze to skitter away once more.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you. Or something,” Grantaire said quietly, studying the frayed hem of his hoodie even as he leaned ever so slightly into Enjolras’ touch. “It’s my uncle. I mean- it’s his funeral. I didn’t really want to come, but…my aunt, she-” He let out a frustrated huff, obviously fighting to get the words out and Enjolras took an unconscious step closer, bridging the last of the distance between them as if he could physically shield Grantaire from all his troubles. Grantaire looked up at him, then, the deep shadows under his eyes even more visible from this close. “My aunt is the only decent person in my family and I-I just wanted to make sure she’s okay.”

“Of course,” Enjolras said softly, giving Grantaire’s arm another squeeze before letting his hands slide upwards, his palm fitting easily into the groove where neck meets shoulder. The fabric of the hoodie was soft and slightly damp with rain and when Grantaire finally touched him, fingers careful and whisper-soft against his hip as though he was afraid Enjolras would bolt any minute, a shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. They rested there for a minute, hardly gripping at all, and Enjolras felt the old bitterness surface, the knowledge that he had done everything wrong with this man. 

“Are you sure we can go like this?” Enjolras asked, then, giving his red skinny jeans a doubtful look.

For the first time today, Grantaire’s lips twitched and he gave a snort of amusement. “Whatever,” he gave Enjolras a wry smile. “At least your clothes don’t have any holes, right?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said with a smile, giving Grantaire’s hood a playful tug. “I think it really goes with your whole starving-artist look.”

Grantaire huffed a laugh and stepped away, immediately making Enjolras feel cold with the lack of his warmth. “At least I don’t look like a hipster.”

Enjolras pursed his lips, obediently falling back into step as Grantaire started walking again. “I don’t even wear glasses. If anyone, then Combeferre is the hipster.”

Grantaire laughed at him. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

*

The grave was at the far end of the cemetery and Enjolras tried to remember when he had last been to one at all. The funeral of his grandfather, he thought, when he was ten. He remembered being cold then, as well, far colder than now for it had been winter and there had been snow everywhere. That and the crying. It had been a big gathering and he remembered several of his cousins and his aunt all surrounding his grandmother as she had quietly sobbed into her delicate, lace handkerchief. His mother had been stoic as always, dispassionately holding Enjolras’ hand in her own, her face mostly hidden behind the black veil of her stylish hat. His father had looked uncomfortable throughout the whole thing, his hands twitching to draw out his phone and his bluetooth headset peeking out of his breast pocket from behind the silk handkerchief. It had been awful.

Today, the group was much smaller and the difference in class could not have been more obvious. The flower arrangements were voluminous and overflowing with banners. There was not a black veil in sight - nor a hat for that matter - and people where openly wiping their faces with scrunched up tissues. There was a priest, though thankfully his speech seemed to have been delivered already and he was now occupied with comforting one of the sobbing women who was clinging to his arm as she babbled in between tears.

Grantaire seemed to slow the further they came, before finally freezing completely a few feet from the crowd. His jaw was tense, his hands twitching and he had never looked more like a caged animal posed for flight. Enjolras did the only thing he could think of; he reached down and took Grantaire’s shaking hand into his.

Grantaire jumped at the contact, turning wide eyes to Enjolras who met them evenly and, upon realising that Enjolras was not about to let go, gripped back as though his life depended on it. His fingers were icy and shaking despite the vicelike grip, but Enjolras only held on more firmly and easily accommodated when Grantaire slid them between his own. And that was how they took the last few steps.

A blond woman with kind brown eyes spotted them first and, detangling herself from what was most likely one of her daughters, came over to them with a few, swift strides.

“Grantaire!” she called, a small but genuine smile brightening her otherwise plain features. She hugged Grantaire, squeezing him brief and tight. Grantaire pressed close for a moment, but did not release Enjolras’ hand and Enjolras did not attempt to let go.

Grantaire stepped back from the embrace and the woman’s eyes turned to Enjolras, losing nothing of their kindness.

“And you must be Enjolras.”

Enjolras’ eyes snapped to Grantaire, who was decidedly not looking at him. Forcing himself to hide his surprise, Enjolras reached out with his free hand, thankfully his right, and accepted the woman’s firm handshake.

“Grantaire’s told me so much about you,” she went on with a smile. “I’m glad to finally meet you, even though it’s not the nicest of places. I’m Grantaire’s aunt.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Madame.”

She laughed at him and waved a hand between them as though batting away a fly. “Oh, please, none of that. Call me Justine.”

Enjolras nodded dumbly, still taken aback by the warm welcome and the fact that Grantaire had obviously told his aunt all about him, though judging by the smile on Justine’s face there had been no mention of Enjolras’ less favourable traits.

“Grantaire, my dear, I’m so happy to see you,” Justine said gently, reaching out to grab both of Grantaire’s shoulders. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Grantaire shifted uncomfortably. “I almost didn’t,” he said quietly with a brief glance at something over his aunt’s shoulder. “But I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

“That’s sweet of you, ‘Aire.” She gave Grantaire’s cheek a pat before letting him go. “Thank you. I’m fine, really. It was a long time coming, after all. It’s not so bad, really, just a bit quiet round the house now, you know? Even though I wanted to kill him most of the time, I’d gotten used to the company.” 

Enjolras bit his tongue and tried his best to keep his expression neutral even as Grantaire nodded beside him. He was just about to say something, when a rough voice cut through their quiet conversation.

“Grantaire!” A man appeared next to Justine, broad-shouldered and with a dangerous glint in his eye. He had Grantaire’s hair, even though his was almost entirely grey, and his jaw and nose also looked familiar. His meaty hand was curled around the neck of a bottle and he stank of liquor and cigarettes. Behind him, another man was trudging along, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, also with Grantaire’s hair and with his more slender build. He looked to be older than Grantaire, but not by much.

Justine gave them both a disapproving look.

“Finally found yer way from yer fancy university, have ye?” the broad-shouldered man slurred, clearly drunk, liquid sloshing noisily in the almost-empty bottle as he waved his hand around in an elaborate, if clumsy gesture. It was both frightfully familiar and yet, not at all. “And look! He’s brought his _boyfriend_!”

“Vincent,” Justine warned quietly. Grantaire’s father - for it couldn’t have been anyone else - ignored her.

Entirely unimpressed, Vincent let out a burp and bared his teeth in something that could as easily have been a threat as a smile. “‘Cause it’s not enough that he’s useless, he also turned out a cocksucker!”

Beside him, Grantaire winced as if struck and Enjolras was sure there wasn’t a single muscle left in his body that wasn’t tensed like a bow-string. His grip, he thought, must have reached the point of pain, but even so Grantaire was clutching at him almost desperately.

“Vincent! That’s enough!” Justine snapped, all pretence of trying to keep things calm now gone as her expression was turning more severe by the minute.

Again, Vincent made no sign that he had even heard Justine, his beady eyes still fixed on Grantaire. They were dark and small, a cruel glint in them despite the haze of alcohol and nothing at all like Grantaire’s. Enjolras was glad for it.

“But I should’ve known, shouldn’t I, ‘Taire?” Vincent sneered and Enjolras clenched his teeth hard enough to hurt at the derogative nickname. “Always sitting around drawing hearts instead of playin’ footie with yer brother. ‘M surprised you didn’ wanna wear a dress! But maybe yer faggot boyfriend would like one, ‘e sure is pretty enough.”

“Shut up!” Grantaire snapped, cutting right through the drunken chuckling that had accompanied that last remark. All eyes were now on Grantaire, who looked suddenly fierce. In that moment, Enjolras felt something that could only have been pride. “You can insult me all you like, but you keep Enjolras out of it, you hear?”

“Oh-ho!” Vincent crowed, his surprise fading and his lips stretching back into a sneer. “Grown some balls, have ye? Has gettin’ it up the arse made yer bold?” He snickered at his own words, making Enjolras want to punch him even more.

Grantaire, seemingly on a roll now, was quick to reply this time. His brow drawn in anger and his eyes hard and unflinching. “At least my arse is used for something other than sitting on it all day in the pub and getting shitfaced. You think I’m useless? Haven’t encountered a mirror lately, have you?”

“Who d’you think yer talking to, boy?!” Vincent roared, spittle flying from his mouth and his face red with anger and drink. “I’m still yer father ye little piece of shit! Think ye can get smart with me?”

He took a threatening step towards Grantaire, the movement accompanied by the sloshing sound of liquor once more as the the bottle flew dangerously close by Grantaire’s face while Vincent’s free hand shot up, the flat of his palm facing away, ready to strike. The ring on Vincent’s hand caught the light, glinting dangerously and Grantaire flinched, his head ducking and each of his muscles tensed in anticipation for the blow. It broke Enjolras’ heart to see it, just as it fuelled his anger to new heights. Before anyone else could react, Enjolras had shot forward and, just as the hand was coming down towards Grantaire’s face, caught Vincent’s wrist in a punishing grip, making sure to dig his fingers in as hard as he could. Vincent was strong, but he was also drunk and though Enjolras arm was aching from the force of the blow, he did not budge.

“Do not dare touch him,” Enjolras hissed, dangerously close to the drunkard’s face. A wave of sweetly fumes hit him in the face with each of Vincent’s breaths, but Enjolras held his ground. 

Behind him, Grantaire made a sound of surprise, but Enjolras didn’t dare take his eyes off Vincent. He only tightened his grip for good measure and had the satisfaction of seeing Vincent grimace slightly in pain. It only seemed to fire his anger, however.

Brutally wrenching his hand from Enjolras’ grasp, Vincent threw down the bottle at Enjolras’ feet. Despite the force, the grass dampened the impact enough to keep it form breaking, but wine still spilled out, spraying Enjolras’ shoes and the hem of his jeans. Vincent then used his newly freed hand to fist a meaty paw into the collar of Enjolras’ jacket.

“Ye think I take orders from ye, pretty boy?!” Vincent shouted, spraying Enjolras with spit. “Yer can get in line fer a beating, too!”

He gave Enjolras a shake for good measure and behind him, Grantaire let out another sound, this time of rage and Enjolras could hear him moving, no doubt about to jump to Enjolras’ defence. The fact that Grantaire had absolutely no qualms about attacking his own father for Enjolras - even though he was obviously scared of the man, a fact Enjolras could very well relate to - made warmth explode in Enjolras’ chest.

Before Grantaire could intervene, however, Enjolras had flung out his arm to the side, effectively stopping Grantaire while better shielding him from his father.

“If you wish to hit me, Monsieur, go right ahead,” Enjolras said calmly, each word dripping ice, and raised his chin in defiance. “But be assured that there is more than one lawyer who would gladly stand beside me in the resulting court case. And if you ever raise your hand at Grantaire again, I will personally ensure that you will get intimately acquainted with the inside of a jail cell. Am I understood?”

“You-!” 

The balled fist was raised threateningly and Grantaire was now close enough for Enjolras to feel his breath rushing against the back of his neck, but then Grantaire’s brother jumped in, wrapping a firm arm around his father’s chest and dragging him away from Enjolras. The momentum had both of them stumbling, Vincent leaning heavily against his son and Enjolras landing against Grantaire’s chest. He was caught immediately, safe and warm, Grantaire’s hands curling around his hip bones and his breath now hot across Enjolras’ ear. He was trembling and Enjolras pressed back against him, reaching down to cover one of Grantaire’s hands with his own.

“ _Dad_ ,” Grantaire’s brother was saying, speaking for the first time. His voice was rough from too many cigarettes, but firm despite its quiet quality. “That’s enough, now. ‘Aire, get out of here.” Although not harsh, the words still made Enjolras’ hackles raise.

Some of the other men present had come over and where now escorting a still spitting and cursing Vincent away from them, all but carrying him as his feet seemed unable to do so for him any longer. Grantaire’s brother hesitated, looking at them with a mix of emotions - all of them uncomfortable.

“Take him home, Guillaume,” Grantaire said form behind him, quiet and unreadable. “Aunt Justine doesn’t need to deal with his drunken arse.”

Guillaume nodded, casting a guilty look in Justine’s direction, who gave him a disappointed one in return, and ducked his head slightly as though that had been enough to reprimand him.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Guillaume told his brother quietly.

Grantaire pressed closer against him. “I know.”

Guillaume gave them one last look, before turning away and setting off into the direction of his father, already digging out another cigarette and lighting it with practised ease.

“I’m sorry you had to go through this again,” Justine said, her eyes sad and her lips pinched with regret. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t be this way.”

Grantaire let out a huff of laughter that sounded more like a sob than anything else. “It always is though, isn’t it?”

And then Enjolras’ back was suddenly cold as Grantaire stepped back, sliding from beneath his hand and letting him go abruptly. Enjolras turned to look at him, but Grantaire was already walking away into the direction of the exit on stiff legs, his head bent low.

Justine’s gentle touch made him tear his gaze away to meet her regretful smile, her face suddenly looking older, her shoulders hunched and weighed down with worry.

“You’re a good boy, Enjolras. I’m glad he’s got you to protect him. He deserves something good in his life.”

*

“Grantaire!” 

Despite his slightly longer legs, catching up to Grantaire proved harder than expected, as the other man seemed entirely disinclined to slow down. Enjolras picked up his pace once more and, this time, managed to come close enough to catch Grantaire’s wrist. He stopped walking, then, but didn’t turn to face Enjolras, stubbornly facing away. His shoulders were slumped, hood still up and dark with the ever increasing rain.

Enjolras sighed, tugging gently, but Grantaire didn’t budge until Enjolras stepped closer and bodily turned him around by his shoulder. Grantaire’s gaze was still on the ground, his eyes glued to his battered green Converse and refusing to meet Enjolras’. Enjolras wondered for whose benefit it was - if Grantaire wanted Enjolras to be unable to read him, or whether it was Grantaire that was afraid to see what Enjolras was thinking.

“My brother was right,” Grantaire said quietly. “I shouldn’t have come. And I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, his voice holding a gentleness he hadn’t known he possessed. “You had every right to be here and I’m glad you asked me to come.”

Grantaire snorted, derisively. “Yeah, right.”

Enjolras frowned. “I know I’m not always great at showing it, but you are my friend, Grantaire.”

The surprise on Grantaire’s face was like a punch to the gut and Enjolras was about to say more, when Grantaire shook his head.

“You don’t have to feed me pretty words because you feel sorry for me.”

Enjolras felt his frown deepen, his lips forming a hard line as he fought not to let his fiery temper get the better of him as it had so often happened in the past. The result of his failing control was all too painfully clear now and the regret had never been more suffocating than in this moment.

“I’m not. I’ve always considered you a friend.”

Grantaire looked at him as though Enjolras had said something particularly outrageous. “But you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, I never did.” Enjolras gripped him tighter, looking into Grantaire’s eyes and trying to convey his sincerity with every quiet, intent word. “Grantaire, the things I say- I don’t, I don’t mean them. Not really, not always. You frustrate me and I get angry and I want to help you, but I don’t know _how_ and I just-” He broke off, sucking in a deep breath and trying to control the flood of words. “You’re cynical and you drink too much, but you’re also intelligent and brilliant and a great friend. A far better one than I’ve been it seems.”

“No, Enjolras.” Grantaire was shaking his head again. “You’re not- You’re amazing. You inspire people. You want to make a difference and you work _so hard_ ” He was looking at Enjolras with open adoration now, a look Enjolras had needed time to really see and had lately been craving despite all his misgivings. “You’re perfect. And I’m better when I’m with you. I wish that I could be… _more_ somehow, but I-I’m not. I’m useless and I don’t deserve-” _you_. The last word, though unspoken, hung between them as though it had been shouted.

Enjolras’ fingers curled deeper into the wet fabric of the hoodie, a mindless, desperate gesture. “You’re not useless.”

Grantaire huffed a laugh, a short, broken sound without any humour that made Enjolras’ heart lurch painfully in his chest. Not knowing what else to do in the face of such self-deprecation, Enjolras’ grip shifted and he gave the slightly trembling shoulders beneath his palms a small, but insistent shake.

“Grantaire, you’re not useless,” he repeated with all the conviction he could master and for Enjolras, that was a lot. The tone of his voice must have reached Grantaire somehow, although Enjolras wasn’t sure the message had been believed.

Grantaire slumped, as though Enjolras had just cut the strings that had been holding him up, and Enjolras felt the weight of him straining his arms. He hung his head, soaked hood sliding off his rumpled curls which ended up gently brushing against Enjolras’ skin.

“I don’t want to be like him,” Grantaire whispered, so quiet that the sound of the rain almost swallowed the words as soon as they had been spoken. They sounded like a confession, but Enjolras was ill equipped to grant any form of absolution and though he wished for the right kind of words, they refused to come to him just then. Instead, he bowed his own head, his nose finding the wiry curls so close to him alongside his lips. It was not quite a kiss and Enjolras did not attempt to turn it into one, simply inhaled Grantaire’s scent - clean despite his dishevelled appearance and with the fresh smell of rain clinging to him. 

Grantaire made a small, unidentifiable sound in the back of his throat and pressed even closer, his head turning slightly until the tip of his cold nose pressed against the warm skin of Enjolras’ neck and his hands, warmer now and a sharp contrast to his face, curled around Enjolras’s hips once more. His touch was firm this time, nothing like the tentative brushes from before, his fingers digging in almost desperately as though he thought that if he didn’t hold on tight enough, Enjolras would disappear. Enjolras welcomed the feel of it, the firmness making it more real somehow. More concrete - not reverent and fleeting the way someone would bestow upon some ethereal being only to then never be able to touch it again. That wasn’t what Enjolras wanted. He wanted Grantaire like he was now, warm and firm and real, pressing close and holding on like he meant it, like he never wanted to let go.

Enjolras’ grip shifted, his arms sliding around Grantaire fully, wishing to shield him from the world and all the bad things in it. His fingers sank deeply into Grantaire’s wild hair, his palm cupping the curve of his head and cradling him close. When Grantaire spoke again, his next words were almost entirely muffled by Enjolras’ neck, his breath hot and close against his skin, making Enjolras shiver and his arms tighten.

“I don’t want to end up like him.”

It was another confession, but this time the words came easier to Enjolras, murmured quietly before his lips found Grantaire’s temple and lingered there for a moment to press the curve of his mouth against Grantaire’s skin. He was quite sure they didn’t pass as absolution, but it was close enough for the moment.

“You won’t.” 

What Enjolras didn’t says was: _Because you’re already so much better than that. Because you have me and I won’t let you._ He didn’t have to, for when Grantaire’s lips pressed a kiss to his neck, warm and bold and real, Enjolras knew that he had heard them anyway.

 


End file.
